Kids are like apples. They don't fall far from the tree.
Unless the tree is planted at the top of a hill, in which case the apples will roll.
Unfortunately, my kids aren't rolling anywhere. I'm rooted in land as flat as Kansas, which explains why we're all able to provide such regular, blog-worthy material. I've actually been producing blog fodder for years. I just didn't bother to write about it until my children started emulating it. But truth be told, they come by their exploits honestly - and I have the collection of stories to prove it.
One of them came to mind last week when I saw my brunette neighbor gathering her mail. My brunette neighbor whom I've only ever known as a blond.
"It looks great!" I told her.
"Thanks. This is round three, though. I don't know what I was thinking."
I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking, I'm bored and broke, but this box of Clairol could be fun!
I totally get that. In fact, it was my college motto. My hair has hit just about every color in the rainbow, including an unfortunate run-in with orange. But my worst hair-dye-gone-wrong story isn't about my hair. It's about Callie's.
Callie was my beautiful, blue-eyed college roommate. And her crowning glory was her waist-length, virgin blond hair. Virgin, as in never dyed. And of course, as her hair-dying, maniac friend, I felt it my duty to add just a touch more blond what to what was already perfect hair.
I finally convinced her to let me work my magic over Spring Break of our senior year. We were staying at my parents' house, on our way to Florida for the week. After a quick Target run, I was all set to go: 2 bottles of blond for her and a bottle of chocolate brown for me.
Can you see where this is heading?
After applying one entire bottle of what I now realize was suspiciously dark-looking goo, I started in on the second bottle. Which looked a whole lot lighter than the first.
"Um... I think you need to get in the shower. NOW."
"Really? Already?" she asked. "I thought we were supposed to let it sit for 10 minutes."
"Uh, yeah. You know, just start washing. I have to make a phone call."
The phone call was to the Loreal customer service number listed on the back of the box. While Callie was busily shampooing, I hastily explained the situation to a guy named Ted: Chocolate brown dye applied to light blond hair.
"Well, s---," Ted replied.
"Really!?! That's the best you can give me!?!" I screeched.
"What's going on?" called Callie.
"Nothing! Just keep washing!!"
In my panic, I bolted down the hallway in search another box with another customer service number on the back. One that wouldn't pass me off to an uncooperative man named Ted. Unfortunately, I didn't notice the drop of chocolate brown hair dye on the bottom of my sock until I'd tracked brown spots up and down the hallway of my parents' newly carpeted house.
Callie came around the corner as I was stripping off my socks and trying not to throw up.
"This looks awfully dark. Is it supposed to lighten as it dries?"
It cost $180 to have Callie's hair dyed back to its original color. (Although Callie swore it looked a touch lighter, and "isn't that what we were going for?") Since then, I've left all of my hair-dying to the professionals. Sure my hair might have some purple highlights once in awhile, but I pay someone to do it on purpose these days.
But my boxed-dye days might not be completely behind me. Ella told me today that she'd like to try painting her hair.
"I think it could be fun, Mommy."
Poor little apple. That kid ain't rolling nowhere.